


Pilgrim and the Temple

by theleaveswant



Category: Women in Trouble (Movies)
Genre: Bad Sex, Community: kink_bingo, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fluff, Goddesses, Pornstars, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-30
Updated: 2011-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 04:49:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/pseuds/theleaveswant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trixie calls Bert out on the nature of his obsession with porn stars</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pilgrim and the Temple

**Author's Note:**

> These movies are very silly but I like them and think more people should see them.

They're making out on his couch, again, and it's fine, it's great, Bert's hard and Trixie's wet and eager for his cock, again, but as soon as she gets his jeans open he winces and pushes away but not before she feels him soften, shrinking instantly away from her fingers, again.

Trixie sighs and sits back, pushing her hair out of her face. She waits for Bert to speak, which he does, apologetically. “I'm sorry,” he says, tucking his limp dick back into his briefs, then flashes her a bitter grimace. “Hey, you work in a drugstore. I don't suppose you could sneak me out a few of those little blue pills?”

Trixie closes her eyes and tilts her face up to the ceiling. “You don't need blue pills,” she mutters.

“What did you say?” Bert asks.

“I said you don't need pills, Bert. The problem's not mechanical, or chemical, or whatever. It's something else.”

Bert laughs nervously. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Yes, you do. You know exactly what I'm talking about.” Trixie opens her eyes and looks at Bert, reaching out to turn his scruffily bearded face towards her when he tries to look away. “We've been dating for close to three months, and we still haven't . . . Don't get me wrong, what we've been doing so far is great. I _like_ that you're kind of shy with me. I like showing off for you, opening myself up for you, the way your eyes drink in the sight of me when I pleasure myself with my hands or with toys, and I like that you're not threatened by my sexual self-sufficiency. I _love_ the attention you give to me, the hours you can spend attending to my pleasure, massaging my feet and calves, my neck and my back, not to mention your dedication during oral sex. And I like watching you, too. I could spend days watching the faces you make, the motions of your wrist, the planes and angles of your hands and the way your cock swells and spasms and your whole body shakes when you come, and I hope we can keep doing all of those things, but there are other things I want to do, as well.”

She slides to her knees on the floor, taking hold of Bert's hands and staring up at him intently. “The equipment works, Bert, as you've more than amply demonstrated; it's only when _I_ try to touch it that your erection retreats. And I completely agree with your blog posts about reclaiming male self-stimulation as a healthy, valued sexual practice rather than a source of guilt and lowbrow comedy, and I fully support the political project of decentralizing penile penetration culminating in ejaculation as the apex or the only true act of sexual consummation, as vital to bringing about a truly sex-positive society . . . but godammit Bert, sometimes I just want to thrust your brimming manhood into my throbbing pussy, or my ass, or to feel your hot cum shooting over my tongue and down my throat or even spilling over the back of my hand.”

Bert's staring fervently into her eyes now, swallowing to quench the sudden desert in his mouth and grinding the heel of his hand into the crotch of his jeans, clearly ready to give it another go. It's reassuring to Trixie to know that he does want the same things she does, that he's not just trying out of obligation. He leans in to kiss her but Trixie turns away, certain that she already knows how that will play out and unwilling to face his disappointment, or her own. Dirty talk always gets him going, but so far it hasn't carried him where she wants to go. Maybe it's time to try something else?

“Close your eyes,” she commands, and Bert blinks in puzzlement but does what she asks, settling back onto the couch.

Trixie goes to the chest of drawers besides the couch and rifles through it for supplies, then pushes the coffee table up against the wall beneath Bert's Firepussy poster, steering it with her shins because her arms are full.

“What are you doing?” Bert asks.

“Just wait.”

He angles an ear towards her and sniffs the air. “Was that a lighter? Why are you lighting candles?”

“You can look now.”

He does. “Um . . .”

“Ta-da!” She takes his hand and leads him over to the table, set out with candles and old craft supplies, glass beads and silk flowers.

“Is this a shrine?” He looks up at the poster. “To Elektra Luxx?”

“Isn't this whole room?”

“Wh—no! I can't believe you would even say that, it's completely blasphemous!”

Trixie kneels again in front of her improvised altar. “You're the one who calls her a 'sex goddess'.”

“Well, yes, but—that's _prose_ , it's hyperbole, it's not supposed to mean—it's just, sometimes you run out of ways to say 'exciting', and then—”

“Hush,” Trixie says, reaching up to grab Bert's wrist and pull him down to the floor with her. “Just bear with me for a moment, I think it will help.”

Bert grumbles indistinctly, but follows her in folding his hands in front of his heart and tilting his face up towards Elektra's, gazing smolderingly out from the wall, larger than life and insensitive to their plight.

“How long has it been since you had sex with another person, in person? Before me, I mean.”

“ . . . A while. Why?”

“And how long have you been working on _En Pelotas_?”

Bert is quiet.

“Bert Rodriguez . . . you've dedicated yourself to the appreciation, if I may say the veneration, of adult film performers. You've poured all your passion into the evaluation and praise of passion, enacted by others, for others. You're like an attendant to the sacred prostitutes who brought their worshippers into ecstatic communion with the very essence of life—you've even said as much, in a roundabout way, in that series of posts you did on art and eroticism, where you quoted Carol Queen and that Linda Williams article about the false dichotomy between Annie Sprinkle's porn and her performance art.”

Bert scrunches up his face. “I can't believe you read the footnotes . . .”

“My point is, Bert, that whether you chose this path or were called to it by the divine feminine energy you talk about so obliquely yet eloquently on your blog . . . you're making up the rules, or discovering them, as you go along. Your behavior is not constricted by temple doctrine.”

“I know that, of course I know that.”

“I used to wonder at first if I was the problem, if you were so used to your sex goddesses, these perfect women on your laptop screen, that there was no way I could measure up, but then I saw the way you looked at me and I knew that wasn't it. Then I wondered if it was your own imperfection you were afraid of, performance anxiety, worrying that you couldn't measure up. That might still be part of it, I suppose, though I'm certain you've nothing to worry about, but it's not the whole story.”

Trixie reaches up to trace the curve of Elektra's jaw, feeling the cool smoothness of mint-condition high-gloss paper. It's not even dusty; he must clean the whole collection regularly. Out of the corner of his eye she can see him trying not to wince at what the oils from her fingers will do to his curated treasures.

“You know they're real people, right? You didn't call them into being with your worship, and they don't depend on the offerings of their followers, individual or collective, for their survival, except in the abstract way of commercial popularity. You've met so many of them, seen their embarassment at your unexpected questions, you have to understand that. They're human, flesh. Like me. They have their own dreams, and their own desires.”

“I do understand that. I'm not . . . delusional, I'm not that kind of fanatic.”

“Then you understand that your behavior has no effect on hers. Bert? You're not betraying her, and she's not punishing you. Elektra Luxx did not retire from the adult entertainment industry because you you discovered that you wanted to fuck me, and not following through on that desire in a narrowly literal way is not going to bring her back in front of the camera. You heard it from her, when she replied to your email and thanked you for your concern and all those nice things you said? She knows how much you love her work and how much you'll miss her, but she has other things she needs to deal with right now, just like any other real person might.”

“I know. I know!” Bert sits back on his heels and Trixie turns away from the poster, taking hold of his hands.

“I'm not asking you to stop caring about her, either, or to stop writing about porn. I know it can only get in the way of your caring about me if you think it's one or the other, that you can only do one at a time. As for _En Pelotas_ and all your grand ambitions, you know I'm right there with you. I only want to help.” Trixie smiles until Bert smiles back. “You're a sex blogger, Bert, remember? You can have any kind of sex you want. It's okay for you to put on a condom, lie back on the floor, and let me ride you until you erupt like a volcano between the convulsions of my inner muscles. I promise that Elektra won't mind, and neither will the Goddess. What do you say?”

Bert says he'll try. They don't quite manage it this time, Bert is still too nervous—his cock stays hard long enough for Trixie to roll the condom on herself but retreats when she tries to mount it—but it is an encouraging start.

**Author's Note:**

> References:  
> Queen, Carol (1997) _Real Live Nude Girl: Chronicles of Sex-Positive Culture_. Pittsburgh: Cleis Press.
> 
> Williams, Linda (1997) A Provoking Agent: The Pornography and Performance Art of Annie Sprinkle. In _Writing on the Body: Female Embodiment and Feminist Theory_. Katie Conboy, Nadia Medina, and Sarah Stanbury, eds. Pp. 360-379. New York: Columbia University Press.


End file.
